No visit to Morgue was complete without a visit to the Morgue Beach situated south of the main town.

Roger our tour guide had requested we make an early start.

Joyce, my aged companion was looking forward to the beach.

She had packed her newly acquired swimmers and thought she cut a dashing figure when she paraded them before me the night before.

Joyce had once cut a dashing figure, but in her aged condition unlike a fine wine, she was more your cheap vinegar.

We arrived at the beach with the sun shining and the majestic sound of waves rolling languidly onto the sand. Immediately we dropped our clothes and ventured to the water’s edge.

Our joy was curtailed by Roger running down the beach pointing out the signs warning people to stay out of the water. Hearing Roger announce there would be no swimming was met with a collective sigh of disappointment.

Joyce never one to be deterred settled down on the sand to work on her tan. She fell asleep while I took a walk along the beach.

On my return, Joyce was looking more lobster than woman. She was burnt to a crisp and later in our hotel room once again acquiesced to me applying generous amounts of soothing aloe vera to her burnt stinging flesh.

I did it twice: once on the beach and burnt my back in 1972, and the second time some 10 years later falling asleep in a deckchair, so resembled a liquorice allsort. Silly me, but the partner was worse as he burnt from the neck to waist and thighs to ankles. Owwwwwww!